


bird boned

by the_ocean_weekender



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 12k of indulgence and they dont even kiss, Angst, F/M, Fictional Religion & Theology, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Melisandre is a good bro, Not Really Character Death, Spoilers for Book 3 - A Storm of Swords, and selyse is not a bitch, not any of the ones you care about anyways, slow burn ftw, that slash? yeah 12k of working up to hand-holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 19:42:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14921667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ocean_weekender/pseuds/the_ocean_weekender
Summary: Davos suffers. Stannis is... concerned?





	bird boned

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place at some point between ASOS Davos III and IV  
> Warnings: depictions of illness; descriptions of hand maiming; Stannis Baratheon, King of No Feelings™ feeling feelings; and sympathetic portrayals of female characters

_ I. _

Inside Dragonstone's keep, Stannis surveys the table of the seven united kingdoms, and grinds his teeth. With just him and Davos within the four walls, he feels the safest he has felt in months, and quickly dismisses the feeling.

His Hand had it right when he said his king would rather die than bend the knee. Stannis would rather die than live in a world where justice is not properly met out as it has been since the time of the First Men. Where his daughter would marry a base-born abomination and be forced to bear monsters in place of children. _Where_ , he thinks, _evil is left to beget itself and gorge upon itself_.

It's all he can do to hold back a sneer of distaste or a shudder of an emotion yet more betraying. If fate were to force his hand, and leave him with but those two options, then death would be filled with an infinite mercy.

His Hand knows this, Stannis thinks as he details his plans for the future. His Hand, his Onion Knight, his Smuggler, his best lord and vassal. _That is why he speaks with utmost honesty, for he knows it is the truth that is most valuable._ Queerly, the idea fills Stannis with pride not dissimilar to that he feels for Shireen- _he_ is the king that has learnt the value of such things, and it will be _his_ rule which shall bring peace to Westeros. Melisandre, too, has seen the truth in her flames, and he draws himself up to stand tall over the great table- the Red Priestess below and the Onion Knight opposite, he feels powerfully renewed, as he has not since before Renly was slain.

"May I ask _what_ of this situation brings you such pleasure, Your Grace?" Davos asks over the table. No other man on the isle would _dare_ , and it is this quality which makes Stannis almost _smile back._

"The certain knowledge that with Melisandre's talents and your good council, my victory is near certain, Davos."

The comment receives him a wan smile, "Forgive my lack of enthusiasm, my lord, but I am reminded of an old saying of my mother's- the only certainty of any man is death."

For some inexplicable reason, it only increases his good humour. "Your lady mother provided as good council to you then as you do to me now, Onion Knight. It is as true as they say in the Free Cities- _valar morghulis."_

_"_ All men must die."

"Yes," Stannis confirms. "But before I do that, I mean to live."

***

Davos, Stannis notes, fades with the setting sun. By the time they have come to an acceptable conclusion of the day's work (Davos, naturally, had begun commenting five hours past that _his grace_ could do with food and rest and renewal for the work that must be done _tomorrow_ ) even with the candles lit the light is waning such that in a few minutes it will be impossible to read or write any further.

Perhaps, Stannis admits, he has had them both at it too long _._ In the moonlight his Hand has grown pale and his own body has tired. Though it pains him, he must accept that the Battle of the Blackwater damaged more than just their numbers and their ships.

But not their spirits, he reminds himself sternly. His determination has only increased with time, as if the slow, sapping decline of grief for his brothers is replaced piece by piece and drop by drop with kindling for the fire in his heart. In such a mood, Stannis can oft believe that he, like R'hllor, will burn eternally, lighting his kingdom and saving it from the darkness.

Harsh coughs bare forth from behind Davos' gloved fist, and Stannis waits for him to finish before he stands and says, "I believe it is time for us both to retire, Ser Davos. There is no matter left so pressing that it cannot stand to wait for the 'morrow."

"As you wish, Your Grace," Davos nods, looking- relieved? It is a silly response, but something inside of him cannot help but feel stung by the expression upon the other man's face. Quickly, he suppresses the feeling. Both of them are tired, and candles will play tricks upon the eyes. Besides, he is a demanding king, if a just one, and Davos is but a man. It is perfectly reasonable for a man to be glad he can retire to his bed and sleep having completed a day of work and duty. Surely, if any negative feeling was the result of a... _personal_ complaint, his Onion Knight would have voiced it from the start.

He realises Davos has not yet stood to leave and frowns, "Davos?"

"My apologies, Your Grace," Davos wheezes in reply, hurriedly getting to his feet. As if from a great distance away, or as if he is seeing one of Melisandre's visions in the flames, Stannis watches frozen as Davos sways on his feet, once, twice, steadies himself by clutching the back of his chair, then takes a single step forward and collapses on the floor.

There's a pause before Stannis is filled with such emotion that he must spring forward to the prone figure lying on the flagstones else he fears he'll drown in it.

"Davos?" he asks, in a manner that is frantic for him but to any other man would seem dreadfully cold for a king whose Hand has--

His smuggler's head lolls as he grasps to find a pulse with one hand, turning his shoulder with the other. Faintly, he feels in his fingertips Davos' heart, and his senses return to him. With great care he lets Davos lie back again on the floor, stands and in two strides has crossed to the door and wrenches it open.

It is his squire Devan Seaworth who is in attendance this night, and when he turns he sees his King standing tall in the doorway and his lord father lying small in the room behind him. Before the boy has even chance to open his mouth, Stannis orders him to fetch Maester Pylos immediately. Devan goes so rapidly he does not even say "Yes, Your Grace," but Stannis finds he cannot be a stickler for such courtesies when such speed is required. He shuts the door and returns to his stirring Onion Knight.

"Do not move, Davos," he orders. "The maester is not yet here, and I am ill-advised to aid you."

"My Lord," he says, before his words are cut off by more coughing. Stannis has heard that sound but once before, and it was when the Lord of Light judged Maester Cressen and found him a traitor with his own poison.

A horrible thought flits through Stannis' mind, _has the Lord of Light judged Davos a second time and seen betrayal in his flames?_

 As if in response to the unvoiced thought, the other man struggles to sit up slightly. “My Lord,” he wheezes out in little breaths, “ _Your Grace_ \- what-“ it is no good, for every breath catches in his throat and threatens to rip it apart piecemeal with cough after damned cough.  In spite of his previous command, Stannis seizes him about the shoulders and helps him to sit propped up against the chairs they have sat in since this morning, reasoning the elevated position might settle the man’s chest a little.

“I have sent for the maester,” he says, wondering if even in his weakened state Davos will be able to realise the… _concern_ in his voice.

“’Tis just a cough, Your Grace.” And on cue, his Hand begins to cough again. Stannis can feel how thin he has become through his clothes; _the battle at Blackwater did this_.

“You collapsed, Ser,” he responds whilst looking around the room hoping perhaps to find a pitcher of water, or even ale or wine, but there is nothing but what was finished with hours ago. A twinge of guilt goes through him. “I have sent for Pylos.” _And I’ve mind to have his head if he does not get here very soon_.

“A cough,” the smuggler insists still. “It will pass.” There is a brief pause, which allows Stannis to start wondering the best course of action to take, and then he notices Davos has frozen in his grasp and his eyes are looking out at something which Stannis cannot see. “I have come this way before,” he whispers reverently.

Stannis mislikes the murky pools that have come over his eyes. They remind him too much of the sea as it was when he first caught sight of his parents returning home on the _Windproud_. With great care, he seizes Davos around the arms and shakes him slightly. “Davos,” he says, wrenching his jaw apart with each syllable. “Davos, do you know where you are?”

Underneath those glazed pools, something swims to the surface just enough that Davos raises his head to look at him and frown. “My Lord?” He coughs again, and Stannis feels his body seize up within his grasp, but thankfully he does not fall prey to another fit. “My Lord, has the siege ended?”

“Yes,” he assures him, thinking of the maiming and the knighting he bestowed within minutes of each other. “Do not fall asleep,” he orders, watching how Davos droops. “The maester has not yet seen to you.” _The maester has not yet proved himself worthy of the title_ ; Stannis is certain the man has taken too bloody long to arrive. _If he is not here soon I shall_ -

Pylos and Devan Seaworth hurry into the room, between them carrying what Stannis estimates to be perhaps over a quarter of Dragonstone’s stock of medicines, poultices and tonics. If his squire fears for his father’s health, or falters in his steps at the sight of him, he recovers too fast for anyone to notice.

Stannis forces himself away from his Hand to stand upright over Devan's shoulder. _This is Davos' son_. Perhaps Davos would see fit to comfort the boy, but it has never been a talent that the king himself possessed, and he fears attempting only to achieve the opposite.

How do you tell a boy of twelve that you know not if his father shall live or die? That you know not if he is gravely ill? That you fear you may be partly to blame for his weakened condition, and whatever may befall him now?

They have already grieved the Onion Knight once, and Stannis has seen his own reflection oft enough since to know what it has cost him.

He commands the guards who followed in the fretting pair's wake to see that the empty room off his own chamber is prepared for the night. Since he named Davos his Hand, he has taken little interest beyond his royal duties and council, and can only vaguely recall Selyse or one of her stewards mentioning that he had been allocated quarters near to the Southern Gate.

They are not sufficient. They are cramped and cold and damp, scarcely different from the dungeons where Davos stayed upon his arrival, and it is these factors combined with the long walk twice a day to and from the other side of the Keep to attend his king that Stannis fears is to blame for his ill health.

At least, if his Smuggler is to die tonight, Stannis shall be close by to watch him pass, and perhaps aid him to the window to view the sea for one final time.

Turning back to watch his squire and his maester fuss over his Hand, he sets his mouth into a grim line and grinds his teeth. There is no comfort for Devan, nor him, in the truth that Davos might die, and Stannis does not want him to.

***

Pylos turns away from where he has settled Davos under several furs in the bed of his new chambers and begins to clear away the array of pestles, mortars, herbs and other items he used to treat the now-sleeping man. Stannis grinds his teeth and glares at the maester’s back, longing all at once for Maester Cressen.

“Well?” he asks harshly, aware of Devan’s presence almost like a deathly wound.

It had occurred to him that perhaps he ought to send the boy to retire for the night, but the wheezing of his Hand gave him pause to think that it was possible the end was near for him. After losing four sons, Stannis does not have it within himself to deny Davos the comfort of another in his final hours. Nor can he deny that, had Robert tried to prevent _him_ from watching as their parents’ ship broke up, he would have refused so fervently that armed guards would have been the only means by which to get him to leave. Despite having done little in the past two hours, Stannis has not been able to use the time to puzzle out what Davos would do.

“He will likely survive and return to full health, Your Grace” the maester confirms.

His words unlock a great chain that thus far has been bound tight around his chest. “ _Likely_?”

Pylos pales. “One can never be fully certain about such matters, Your Grace,” he explains with a trembling voice. “Ser Davos is suffering a re-occurrence of the illness he fell prey to whilst stranded after the Blackwater. It seems he did not recover completely when I first treated him.”

_Whilst he was in the dungeons for treason_ is left unspoken but Stannis hears it all the same. That same guilt gnaws at him much like the hunger did at the beginning of the Siege, but he grinds his teeth and ignores it.

“He will require complete bed rest in order to recover,” Pylos continues. “It is not the consumption, Your Grace, but merely a common illness, worsened by the wildfire and his time upon The Spears.”

Devan frowns, “He was coughing up blood, Maester. How can you be sure it is as simple as you say?”

There are times when it is clear for all to see that his squire is the son of the Onion Knight, and now as with every time before, it is a pleasant thing to see. In spite of the dire circumstances, Stannis is almost warmed.

Seeing the look that Maester Pylos levels at the boy makes him long for Cressen yet more.

“Oft those who cough so irritate their throat and cause bleeding,” he says coolly. “It is easy to discern such minor tears from more dire symptoms by the colour of the blood that is brought forth. Ser Davos has nothing wrong with him that cannot be aided with rest. Unusual for a man who has survived as much as he, but it is oft seen that those who grow up among the smallfolk are better adapted to resist illness in such circumstances.”

Stannis grinds his teeth and dismisses the man, wondering perhaps if sheer impertinence would be cause enough to petition the Citadel for a new maester. Once the door is closed, he turns to address Devan, who is awake far later than a boy of twelve ought and is looking at his sleeping father with a grim look upon his face and his fists tightly clenched at his sides.

“Devan.”

His head snaps up, “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Retire for the night,” Stannis commands. “And be sure that until Ser Davos is recovered, Maester Pylos attends to him only with someone else present.”

There is a pause where he is certain that Devan will protest. Will ask to stay, and see to his lord father in the night; Stannis hopes he does not, for he will order him to leave and for the guards to ensure he stays away if he must. It will be harsh, and for some queer reason he is concerned that Devan will think ill of him for it, but he shall, for he is certain that Davos would not wish for his son to see him in such a manner, let alone aid him in all that a man on his sickbed needs aiding with.

“In the morning, send a raven to your lady mother informing her of what has happened. If your lord father’s condition worsens in the night, you shall be sent for immediately.”

Both the emotions warring upon Devan’s face and the outward display of such feelings are foreign entities to him, but then the muscles still and the fighting ceases. “Yes, Your Grace,” Devan replies, and he nods and takes his leave.

The door shuts a second time and Stannis is left alone with the fire crackling and his Hand wheezing. Careful not to make a sound and disturb him, Stannis pulls a chair closer to the bed and sits down.

***

"My Lord," Davos whispers feverishly. "Your Grace, my king. My King, My King, My King, My King."

It sounds so much like a prayer Stannis feels the urge to halt it. "What do you require, Davos?" he asks, painfully aware he lacks any hint or quality of a nurse maid.

Yet ill-equipped as he is for the task, he will not return to his own chambers tonight. Perhaps not even tomorrow night. He will stay until his Onion Knight is well, and aid him where he is able. It feels like Shireen when she became ill with grey-scale all over again.

His Lord Hand had seven children once, and Stannis cannot imagine how it must have felt to lose four in one blow.

Coughing interrupts his thoughts; calmly he moves the pillows so that Davos may sit up and breathe easier. A maester's chain he has not, but common sense he _does_ , and he likes to think his Smuggler has been a good influence upon him in that regard.

At least, he can do no worse than Maester Pylos. He takes his anger out on a pillow, plumping it to within an inch of its life, and grinds his teeth.

"Your Grace?" Davos asks; he is clutching one hand to his chest and even gloved Stannis would be able to see the shortened fingers.

"Yes?"

"What're you doing?"

Briefly, he pauses, and then resumes his ministrations. Gentle they are not, but effective they seem to be. "Tending to your needs."

Davos shakes his head, bestowing upon him a look he cannot understand. He feels another pang of treacherous feeling, reminds himself that no other king would be so familiar with his Hand and Davos has every right to be confused.

"Yes, Your Grace," is all he says.

Stannis grinds his teeth some more. A log breaks up in the fire. An owl hoots outside the window. Perhaps this is how his Smuggler used to feel whilst he sailed in the dead of night, or perhaps he is simply a fool to believe that he ought still be here, when there are any number of servants who could do the task far better. But… the King's _justice_ is that a bad act must be punished, and a good one rewarded. Stannis cannot discern if his folly was in the battle, or the imprisonment, or the long, hard work days neither of them would ever admit they were perhaps not fit for. There is no punishment set out in law for whatever evil he committed; any other man would see that as proof he had not in fact done wrong, but he has been since childhood too serious a man to excuse any such thing, and it is that which brings him here now. His punishment is to care for Davos. To complete a task he is wholly unsuited for. To confine himself in close quarters with another. To observe the destruction his wrong has wrought.

To observe what it has done to _Davos_ , Stannis thinks, would be punishment enough.

But it is not for he to think on how the Lord of Light chooses to punish those who serve him, he must only endure, and learn.

Stannis likes to think that, if he could explain such thoughts in words, his Onion Knight would approve.

"Do you require anything?" he asks.

Frowning, Davos slowly shakes his head. "No, Your Grace," he replies. The effort to speak brings forth coughing that will not stop long enough to strike fear into his King's heart like a crossbow. He grasps the other’s shoulders firmly as the effort to breathe wracks him, keeping him upright against the pillows as the roll of parchment on the table probably instructs.

"Do you require the Maester?" he inquires.

He shakes his head again and- wisely in Stannis' opinion- forgoes actual speech. Wise too, that he declines Pylos to be fetched. Though a traitor, he’s come to long for Cressen. Since his death, Pylos has become accomplished in his own right, and taken on another boy from the Citadel to train much like he was, but Stannis cannot help but feel surer and surer with each passing month and new moon that something is changing deep within. Their hearts, mayhaps, or the shadows, or the darkness itself, crawling and twisting their ministrations and aids into ghosts, not half as effective as they once may have been under the old Maester. A foolish idea, yet he remembers well the mist Pylos brew no more than three or four hours ago to calm the dreadful coughing, and how already its affect has waned. He remembers Cressen concocting that very same mist, once even for _him_ , and recalls well the relief it had brought him for far longer.

When he stands and fetches a clean cloth, he brings with him the pitcher of spiced wine one of the maids brought up. It feels almost too intimate, wiping away the feverish clamminess of Davis’ face and the flecks of blood on his lips, but Stannis smothers the feeling. _I must endure_. Other men, surely, would be similar to him in this regard- they too would sense a distinct _closeness_ in caring where they never have done so previously. The Lord of Light has reasons which he knows not.

Once he is done, he discards the cloth and wraps the fingers of Davos’ right hand around the goblet of wine, “Drink.”

“As Your Grace commands,” he smiles, which might be why Stannis keeps his hand over Davos’ to make sure he doesn’t spill any.

“Pylos left behind a goblet of wine with a pinch of sweetsleep mixed in,” he looks over his shoulder at where the offending object still stands on the table, covered with a dark blue cloth to mark it out to an unsuspecting mind. No doubt it would bring sleep and respite more effectively than just hot wine, but Stannis mistrusts it for some reason. A mere pinch is agreed safe by all the Maesters, yet all the same he loathes it and wonders whether Pylos prepared it himself or even if he has larger fingers than an average man that could make the dose unsafe.

Luckily, Davos seems to agree with him. Be it due to the same mistrust or he has detected his concerns in his voice, he declines. “That will not be necessary, Your Grace.”

Stannis takes the empty goblet from him, “Then sleep, Onion Knight.”

Another smile comes over Davos’ face, loose and languid and soft as he is wont to do on rare occasions. “I could advise you to do the same, Your Grace.”

It loosens the tension within him just slightly. “Thank you for the consideration, Ser.”

Although he fails to see the humour, it makes Davos laugh, which within moments leads to another coughing fit and wheezing little gasps when the chance arises.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” Davos murmurs once he is recovered. Stannis ‘tuts’ softly and helps him turn and lie on his side before retrieving the cloth and washing his face again.

By the time all the vestiges of illness have fallen away, the Smuggler has fallen asleep. The realization draws a sigh of relief from Stannis’ lips. No more of that monstrous cough, no more strange words, no more ill-met looks.

No more soft looks. No more gentle smiles.

Sitting back in the chair, Stannis sees that Davos’ left hand is spattered with blood. Lightly, lest he ruse the man from his recently-acquired slumber, he takes the hand in his own and begins to clean away the offending stains. The dark red mixes with the scarring from twenty years past, and with something too close to a shudder for his liking Stannis draws away and settles back into the chair as comfortably as the aged wood and iron will allow. It has been a long day and a longer night. His Hand is right- as he usually is- he requires rest before the morning comes.

Unbidden, his mind conjures images of four shortened fingers as he falls asleep, and eyes like pools of water as deep as the sea.

***

_I have come this way before_ Stannis reflects, surveying the courtyard of Storm's End. A block in front of him and sword in hand, he waits for the crowds to mill about close to the walls instead of pressed tight around the centre in anticipation of what is to come.

Davos snakes through the crowd of people like a stream newly melted after a long winter. Though as a smuggler finer clothes and jewels than any the lords and ladies presently wear have passed through his hands, Stannis finds it curious he still dresses as plain and simple as his fellow smallfolk, if altered to better brave the cold.

Davos comes cheerfully up to the dais and the block, kneels, and sticks his left hand out onto the block as he would offer the other to a new acquaintance to shake.

"Davos," Stannis says calmly. "You are convicted under the charge of smuggling. Do you protest?"

The man in question raises his chin defiantly. _It didn't happen this way_ , Stannis thinks.

"Get on with it, sire."

Stannis raises his sword, "For the smuggling," and brings the blade down across the four fingers.

As in life, Davos does not scream, merely wheezes his breath out in a low whistle and leans forward to rest upon the bloody block.

When the sword is lowered, so too is the maimed hand. Davos fists the limb into the cloth of his black cloak to stem the blood. Maester Cressen hovers anxiously at the forefront of the horrified on-lookers, but Stannis already bade him to wait before they entered the courtyard.

He raises the sword again. "For the onions," and he lays the blade on Davos' shoulder, and knights him with the blood still wet.

***

He awakes with a gasp, and the knowledge that what he has just seen was not entirely true to life provides little comfort. Melisandre is sat opposite, looking away from the fire to raise one red eyebrow at him.

_My brother or my king_ he had told Davos when they brought him from the dungeons. When Melisandre has seen he had learnt what Maester Cressen could not. Relief sweeps over him; a gratitude that he did not have to make an impossible choice this time.

She sees all of this in his face, and a smile that is not a smile creeps onto her lips. “He shall live.”

“You have seen it in the flames?” The only two people in Westeros who would be able to see his eagerness and desperation are in this very room.

“Yes,” she replies. Then she adds, “Roose Bolton’s bastard son has re-taken Winterfell and captured Balon Greyjoy’s son. The Lord of Light has shown the Usurper’s death is imminent.”

“Which Usurper?” he asks, leaning forward heedless of the way his spine cracks in response to a night spent in a chair.

She fixes him with her eyes, or perhaps it is the jewel at her neck that entrances him. Stannis cares little. “Joffrey Baratheon first, and then Balon Greyjoy. Robb Stark-“ she frowns and tilts her head. “Him too,” she says slowly. “But the when and the how, I cannot tell you. Something has displeased R’hllor, and his anger clouds the truth from me, but him too.”

The news brings forth feelings he has not felt in a long time. Perhaps not since the siege of Storm’s End was broken.

With that thought, Stannis looks across to the bed. There sleeps Davos, wheezing and feverish still, but peaceful, with one hand splayed over where his pouch of finger bones used to be. He turns back to the Red Priestess, “The boy?”

“Maester Pylos tends to him still. But to wake the stone dragon, Your Grace, you must-“

“No.” Stannis grinds his teeth and draws his mouth into a tight line. “He is but base-born, yes, but he is mine own blood all the same. You have seen all three Usurpers die with just the leeches, there is no need.”

“Your Grace, there is every need!” Melisandre leans forward and the ruby at her throat catches the light of the fire and burns bright as Lightbringer, Red Sword of Heroes.

“I told you, _no_. Now take your leave, and your suggestions with you.”

With a red look, she does. _Mine own blood_ , Stannis thinks grimly. He is no kinslayer. Twenty years past he chose his blood over his liege, the decision that had led to the Siege, and then to his Onion Knight. He will have the Lord of Light upon his side this time, yet something within him balks at choosing the kingdom over his nephew. The door clicks shut as he buries his head in his hands.

Grinding his teeth, he stands and crosses to the door, and sends for Maester Pylos and Devan Seaworth.

Devan Seaworth, who but a few moons ago was one son of seven, and now is the eldest of just three. _No,_ Stannis decides firmly, _my nephew will not die by my hand_. Regardless of the pure and simple mathematics of one kingdom minus one boy, he shall not.

***

Whilst Pylos sees to his Hand, Stannis retires to his own chambers and Devan assists him to change into clothes not marred with work and toil and all manner of things that are present at a man’s sickbed. His squire is as efficient as always, and makes no mention of his lord father who they both can hear coughing even through stone walls. Displeasure runs through him as he realizes the Maester has woken Davos from his sleep, and it is a struggle to wrestle the feeling into submission when he wants nothing more to return and berate the man.

He breaks his fast alone in his solar, reading any necessary documents and applying his signature where it is required. The Maester has been to see him, and says his Hand is no better ‘but no worse’, expecting a full recovery in no more than a fortnight so long as he observes strict bed rest and his chambers are kept warm and free of damp. Stannis dismisses him, and turns to the remaining documents. He has given Devan leave to see his father before he sends a raven to his lady mother at Cape Wrath, and is loath to disturb them; both because he has work still to complete and because it is not his place as king nor man to observe a father and son in such circumstances.

_The day’s workload is small_ , he consoles himself, and by the time he hears Devan leave he has only one last document to sign. The bitter drought of truth is that his current holdfast upon Dragonstone needs little oversight; the most pressing issue the coming winter and the fate of Edric Storm. They haven’t the men nor the ships to do any more than reiterate that Joffrey Baratheon is no true king, and pray.

***

"That Maester Pylos is as bad as Roose Bolton," Davos assures him very seriously.

"Indeed?"

"Yes, Your Grace. Leeches and leeches and more leeches, until I asked why _he_ didn't leech himself, if they're good as he says."

Stannis nearly smiles. "You appear better, Lord Hand. I trust Pylos' alternative worked?"

"It weren't alive for one," Davos confirms. "There was a mist, and some sort of- of- of..."

"Drink?"

"Yes," he nods. When his eyes snap up to look him in the face, Stannis notes that they are still bright with fever. "Yes, _Your Grace_ ," he adds carefully. "And he said- he said- you ought read something he left."

Ah, so the fact that Davos was not completely recovered escaped the man's notice, but the untouched scroll upon the table did not.

Set on the table next to the parchment is a cup of some reddish tea, with steam still rising off it and curling into the wafts of smoke that steal over from the hearth. A second note informs him it is butterbur tea, and he is to ensure his Hand drinks it. _Would the man have me pour it down his throat fit to drown him?_ he thinks, grinding his teeth and scowling at the cup. Yet, he picks it up and carefully places it in Davos' hand. "Drink," he instructs.

Davos sniffs it and shoots him a look of disgust, "Yes, Your Grace."

He feels his mouth twitch slightly. "When Maester Pylos visits this evening, you may complain to him of this as you did the leeches, Onion Knight. But as I can do nothing to change neither your health nor the odor, you must drink."

"Yes, Your Grace," he repeats. His mouth quirks again at the tone of betrayal in his Smuggler's voice, and it widens by the barest fraction of an inch when he discards Pylos' note in the fire. He settles into the chair he had slept in the night previously, and begins to read.

The parchment contains little of any value- even _he_ could work out that a man suffering with inflammation of the chest breathes easier sat up, Stannis considers with a sneer. A cold cloth upon the forehead to manage the fever is a pertinent suggestion, and he sends a maid to bring up a bucket of water. _Broth_ , the paper also dictates, and he turns to the half-asleep man upon the bed. "Do you require anything, Ser?"

Davos sits up with a startled cough, "My Lord?"

"Do you require anything?"

He shakes his head; upon spying the cup still in his hands a look of confusion comes over his face. Stannis duly instructs the maid and ensures the door is firmly shut. It is beyond his ability to force the man to eat if he desires not, but he can ensure as few people as possible see him in his weakened state. When he thinks of how _he_ would feel in such circumstances, the forced vulnerability and the voyeuristic vultures of the household, he grinds his teeth and forces the image away.

"Allard?" Davos asks the instant he steps closer. Stannis frowns at how feverish he looks. "Allard was here, wasn't he?"

_Aye, and now he is dead alongside your other sons, Onion Knight_. "Devan, Davos," he explains, wondering if anyone in Westeros would hear the gentleness in his words he wishes was there. "Devan visited you earlier this morning."

"Devan," he nods; Stannis cannot tell if he genuinely recalls the visit or if he is agreeing simply because it is his King who tells him so. "Devan was here- he was- he was- in his raiment, yes. He looks very fine in it. Marya thinks so, too."

Not once has Stannis ever spared a thought for how any of his household looked, which leaves him unable to say anything in return except, "You ought to drink the rest of your tea before you fall asleep again, Davos."

Though his Hand nods, he makes no move to do so. Stannis steadies the cup where it is near to spilling, clenching Davos' hand firmly around it- the right one, he realizes absently, with the four fingers spared his sword. "Davos?"

It is only when he startles that Stannis sees he was near asleep again. "My Lord?"

_Does he believe we are still at Storm's End?_ "You must drink, Onion Knight."

"Yes, My Lord," he agrees, but it takes Stannis awkwardly forcing the cup to his lips for him to understand what he is to do. Once he is certain the man will fare well left to his own devices, Stannis retreats to his chair and alternates between reading Pylos' instructions and looking for visions from the Lord of Light in the flames.

***

As if it were not already painfully obvious to him, Stannis easily comes to the conclusion that he is ill-equipped to deal with the sick. Even Shireen, though the fear had laced his blood like poison, he had been seeking out Maesters from all corners of Westeros and even beyond, fighting any who dared suggest he send her to the ruins of Old Valyria, taking over his lady wife’s duties so she might spend her days with their babe, unable to hold her out of the necessity to ensure the disease did not spread through physical contact. All those factors had prevented him from feeling… _inadequate_ , he mused.

But now, in this instant, Stannis feels _lacking_. He stands over the bed and holds a chamber pot steady as Davos retches, and that is all. In his mind a distinct feeling itches, that a better suited man would do more than simply _this_ , but Stannis cannot fathom what else a man upon his sickbed would want at such a time. Had Cressen ever done more than merely ensure the blankets and furs were kept free of stains?

If he ever did, Stannis cannot recall. If the other man requires more, he is in no position to articulate it.

It does not seem sensible to ask is his Hand requires the presence of the Maester whilst he is incapacitated, so he stays silent. The scene before him is a horrible sight and it puts him firmly of the opinion that the man will have a further sennight of bedrest once he is deemed to have fully recovered, if only to ensure that he will not have to see nor hear such an event again.

Just when he thinks mayhaps the worse has passed, Davos heaves for the umpteenth time and succeeds in bringing up bile and sputum and blood. A lesser man would recoil in disgust; Stannis feels a queer pride that he does not loosen his grasp upon the chamber pot for even one moment. The paltry mess being brought up reminds him how little his Smuggler has eaten in the last two days in the form of a regretful grimace. Had he presented him with some food, or a cup of broth, he has no doubt it would have been an easy thing to get him to eat.

_Well_ , he decides, _there is nothing to be done about it now._

Further unproductive heaves lead to a coughing fit which leads to more retching. It is an endless cycle, like being crushed under a gigantic wheel and each turn presses a different suffering heavy into the bones of the one trapped underneath.

When he is certain that there is no risk to the cleanliness of the bed linen, Stannis leaves the bedside and sends for weak broth, a clean chamber pot, and more butterbur tea seeing as the previous dose has gone to waste.

"King," Davos mumbles. "King, king, king, king, king."

The Onion Knight oft repeats such things to no one in particular, and Stannis does not know what it means. Does it bode well for the future, when both he and their strength as a whole is regained? Does it hint at doubts that thus far have never been allowed to surface, now being floated up in the sea of fever?

All these questions. Stannis is sure he did not ask himself such foolish things before when his Hand was well. Or even when he was in the dungeons. He was a sure King then, though without a proper Hand. Now he has his Onion Knight and his Red Priestess, and he has never felt more unsure in all his life.

Without thinking, he raises a mug of water to Davos' mouth. "Drink."

Davos obeys. Even after all these years, the loyalty he apparently inspires within the man is still unfathomable to him. The loyalty, the trust, to obey without question knowing he served a man who would not use it against him except for the good of the realm. _All this_ , Stannis thinks, _from one meager sip of water_.

Davos draws away from the liquid to cough and cough and cough into his fist, and it comes away bloody, as it had last night. As with last night, Stannis fetches a cool cloth and cleans first his face and then his hand. Somehow even more intimate, illuminated in the stark light of day, with the man in question awake to watch the ministrations that grow more practised with every movement.

One of the many furs slips down an inch as his Smuggler shifts, and he is quick to grasp the offending item with both hands and firmly tuck the man back in. It earns him another one of those queer smiles it appears he is wont to give out whilst infirm.

A knock upon the door takes him away from the stare and he returns with broth and butterbur tea- Davos’ face crinkles in disgust when he identifies the smell a second time and Stannis nearly smiles for the second time in as many hours.

His good humour quickly dissipates as he turns from opening the window (Pylos insists warmth is key to curing such inflammations, but Stannis is certain that the resulting stuffy air is in no way helpful and so he digresses, if only because the sound of the surrounding sea seems it would be soothing) and observes that the Onion Knight lacks the strength to feed himself.

Steeling himself much like he did before the battle that caused much of this unfortunate mess, he crosses the room, sits down in the chair, takes the bowl from him, and proceeds to finish the task with his own hands without a word.

Looking from the spoon to him, Davos raises one eyebrow slightly. For one moment Stannis is sure his help will be refused, then…

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Davos says with no hint of anything but calmness in his voice.

Not a word passes between them for all the time that it takes for him to eat. Stannis grinds his teeth when Davos refuses any more having managed not even a quarter of the broth but holds his tongue. Instead, he substitutes the broth for the tea, and once again wraps both sets of those pale fingers around the mug and bids his Hand to drink. It earns him a look he _can_ read- one of disgust mixed with the urge to vomit again, but he does without protest.

By the time the mug has been emptied, the discarded broth has long since grown as cold as the coming winter, the fire is at risk of dying down to embers if more kindling is not added soon, and Davos has been as good as asleep for several minutes.

Perhaps it is the disturbance of removing the mug from his shortened fingers that stirs him, or the disparity of coolness against fever-hot skin when he puts a compress on his forehead; but as Stannis is about to settle himself into the chair again, Davos gives a drowsy murmur and pats lightly at his arm with his maimed one, once, twice, and falls back into unconsciousness unaware of his King stiffening and forced into alertness.

***

 The night falls and brings with it frigid air that stabs at his skin like a knife and forces him to wake up. Before his senses have even fully returned to him, he is standing- ignorant of how his muscles protest- and crossing to the window and shutting it, heeding only a firm voice deep in his mind that says the room must not be allowed to grow colder. Outside the sky is as black as the sea on a night with no moon, and so late that even Melisandre's night fire cannot be seen.

Though out of sight, it is burning all the same he knows. She strikes fear into his enemies, and many of his allies, but even a red priest fears the dark of nightfall. It brings the Other who must not be named.

Early on in their acquaintance, Stannis oft had wondered that if the Citadel were right that many lands experienced the nighttime whilst Westeros the day, then that meant the Other was always present in the world and merely swept slowly over the lands with the winds. Even now he considers on occasion that it is not the appearance of the Other that the red priests fear, but the idea that he is ever present.

It is but another question of many he does not have the answer to.

He turns to his charge, who at some point whilst they were sleeping has pushed the furs away from his chest, and tangled them about his legs. His Onion Knight is shivering, and Stannis builds up the fire until it licks the bricks of the hearth like a dog.

Options war in his mind and he grinds his teeth, allowing the flames to warm his back and seep the stiffness from his muscles. Putting it to rights risks waking the man up, but allowing his charge to sleep in such a position is anathema to the sickness that plagues him.

Maybe if he is very careful…

Untangling the covers is easily accomplished, as is rearranging them into their proper order. He thinks perhaps if he is able to grasp the sheet underneath and pull, then he might be able to achieve the rest of his task.

Feeling very much out of his depth, Stannis attempts to sit him up. To his surprise, it works, and reaching the pillows and positioning them behind is only a minor difficulty.

Feeling the vaguest hint of pride for his work, he steps away from the bed and wonders _how_ late it is, and if the kitchens are still open and the ovens warm.

Another step, and he freezes as a small moan breaks the silence of the room. Grinding his teeth, he goes back the two paces he had progressed, disappointed he did not manage to leave his Smuggler undisturbed after all. With another low sound, Davos cracks open his eyes the smallest fraction. "Your Grace?" he coughs, baffled and glassy-eyed. "What…."

His eyes slide away to survey the rest of the room before he can remember to finish his sentence.

"Do you have need of anything, Davos?" Stannis asks. All that has come out of the past day's thinking is a variation of asking "what do you require?" without the intimacy of any sentence that contains the word "help".

Following the tradition they have established over the past day, he expects Davos to decline, or not realize he has asked. When Davos fixes him with a wan, pale look and replies, "I think…" it is an unexpected outcome.

When no addition is forthcoming, he frowns, "Davos?"

Davos grasps the bed frame with one hand, pulls himself as close to the edge as he can, and retches. Stannis hurries to place the chamber pot beneath him, wincing when it is filled only a second after he removes his hand from harm's way. The addition of broth does not seem to make the whole process any easier, and once again he is left feeling woefully inadequate as a nursemaid. Holding his shoulders to prevent him falling off the bed is a prudent course of action, but it brings with it that damned certainty that there is something else that could be done, that he is failing to do all that he ought. He grinds his teeth and clutches tighter.

Viewing such horror a second time does little to improve the experience; as soon as he finishes throwing up he falls prey to coughing, which leads on again to more sickness, on and on until it dies down to a choking, wheezing sound, the same as one might hear when a ship breaks up in open water.

The chamber pot contains a putrid mix of broth, blood, and bile. Stannis sends one servant for a clean one, and another for Maester Pylos. His squire is not one of those attending tonight, and he finds himself glad for it as he wrings out the cloth over the bucket and takes it with him back to the bed. Devan is but a boy of twelve years, it would do him no good to have his knowledge of his lord father's illness informed by the mess it creates, particularly when he has seen him only once the Maester has tended to him, and has caused the worse of the symptoms to recede for a short time.

Trying to muster the same caution he used holding Shireen for the first time after the halt of the greyscale, he cleans Davos' face and helps him lie suitably propped with pillows. His fever has risen, Stannis thinks, and with the rise of temperature comes a surge in the worry that has lined his ribcage since the beginning of this whole affair. _Was it really only yesterday evening?_

Fear has a way of prolonging life, in a way all men may wish for but rarely enjoy experiencing. The minutes where he has nothing to do but wait for the Maester seem to take hours, yet the knock upon the door announcing his presence will bring no relief. "Davos?" the word came unbidden to his lips.

"Your Grace?" he whispers.

"I have sent for Pylos. Do you require anything else?" _Before the night is over, I must find something else to ask_ , he vows. _A king must not repeat himself over and over like a parrot from the Free Cities_.

"Water," Davos pleads, eyes flicking to and fro over the ceiling. Stannis wonders what he is seeing. "If it please Your Grace," his words are cut off with that horrid cough. "Not tea," he wheezes. "Not tea."

"What is wrong with the tea?"

" _Water_ ," he begs.

But in the scant moments whilst he turns away to fetch a mug, he falls asleep and Stannis is left to wait again, alone.

***

Pylos wrings his hands and open and closes his mouth like one of the mummers his brothers used to prefer over ruling; the sight makes Stannis grinds his teeth.

"Your Grace," he says beseechingly. "Your Grace if I do not-"

"You will not wake him up." Stannis answers coldly. "If there is nothing you can do whilst he is asleep, then leave. I shall send for you the next time he wakes."

Opening his mouth, Pylos soon realises it will be pointless, and closes it again, "Yes, Your Grace."

Stannis frowns. "What has caused him to vomit, when last time he did not?"

The casualness with which the Maester shrugs makes his teeth grind and his shoulders grow tense. "It is difficult to determine, Your Grace. It is possible this illness is not exactly the same as the previous, or the last time he was not so weakened. Or the tea, perhaps- in some people it can cause sickness."

_Not tea_ Davos had insisted. "Prepare a different tea on the morrow."

Maester Pylos bows, "Yes, Your Grace. Do you have need of anything else?"

His eyes slide away over his shoulder to the pale, wan figure on the bed. "He will survive the night?" Asking feels like weakness. Needing to know he will not lose his-

It is a weakness. His only consolation that the Maester will not recognize it as such. Not in him.

"Yes, Your Grace. The fever shall break soon, I believe, and then the danger will be past."

He holds out until it is just he and his Hand alone again, and then he allows the relief to flood over him. Such emotion has only come upon him but twice before in his life: the day the siege of Storm's End was lifted, and the night Maester Cressen came to his solar to tell him Shireen would live. He is as ill-prepared for it now as he was then, and his only course of action is to conceal it. Suddenly, even though Davos is several feet away and asleep, he is too close. The room is too small. Stannis strides quickly to the window and pulls it open. Each breathe he takes trembles under the weight pressing upon him, though relief has now replaced the fear.

When he can finally shut the window and turn back to the room, he sees first the fire burning in the grate. Melisandre comes to mind. _Can she see his safety?_

He dismisses the thought as a folly of his weary mind, yet he cannot erase the idea entirely. She has already told him Davos will live, and yet those few short hours ago he did not feel the relief he had felt when Pylos told him the same news. Glad there was no battle imminent when they lacked the strength to even die well, let alone win, but not this relief.

Another thought occurs to him. Red priests may see into the flames. Any that serve the Lord of Light may be called upon to see his visions as well- _he_ himself has, after the Battle of the Blackwater. Can the flames see into him, too?

***

 The morrow brings with it much the same routine as the one before; Devan assists him in his solar whilst Pylos attends to Davos, then he gives Devan leave to see his lord father for a time, and uses any means not to think whilst listening out to hear when the boy leaves.

Just as he is blotting his signature on the last document he must see too, there is a knock upon the door, and Selyse enters the room.

Any lesser man would perhaps knock over the inkwell in his shock. Stannis blinks at her, then begins to grind his teeth. "My lady," he greets, unsure of what she could want. His wife is dutiful and sufficient, but increasingly as the years past he finds her presence an inconvenience at best, and he is sure the feeling is returned in kind. In the early days of their betrothal, he had considered that perhaps Robert thought he was doing him a kindness by picking her for his bride. Her sparse frame is imitated in her stern personality, and until she began to worship R'hllor she was as practical and cold as he. In one rare sentimental moment, Stannis had entertained the idea that his late brother had believed that like to like would create a betrothal to benefit them both. It is foolish- Robert was a poor brother and a poorer king.

"My Lord," Selyse replies, her voice like a whip.

He wonders why she is here. Any queries she may have about the running of the household she tends to present through her steward, and he has not seen her outside of worshipping the Lord of Light in many months. When Maester Cressen diagnosed she would not be able to bear child a second time, there had been no reason for them to interact with one another more than necessary. When the greyscale struck their daughter, she turned to Melisandre's for comfort and he to ruling.

"Will you do with the boy as Melisandre instructs?" she asks bluntly.

"No."

"His blood will awaken the stone dragon."

"His blood is mine own. I am no kinslayer."

"You risk your kingship, My Lord. For a monster that defiled our marriage bed, and prevents us from having an heir."

"Shireen is my heir, and it was Robert who defiled the bed. Him and your cousin both."

_That_ brings an angry cold flush to her cheeks. Like dying embers.

"She shall not have the boy." Stannis orders. "If he were older, perhaps I might feel different. But he is not. How do you see him, if not as a child with unfortunate choice of parents?"

It is the first genuine question he has asked her in many, many years. She looks as shocked at the inquiry as he feels for having gave it. But he has a dutiful wife, who does not balk.

"When Shireen was thought to be dying," something in her voice cracks and something in her eyes closes off, he does not know what he appreciates more- that she loves their daughter as he does, or that she will not allow him to view her emotions. "Melisandre looked into the flames every time I asked her. I was forbidden to hold my daughter, but I dared not leave her. Oft I was not even permitted to be in the same room, and so Melisandre allowed me to hold _her_. Every time I asked, she would show me in the flames how my daughter would live. I asked her many times."

Unbidden, Stannis feels the urge to comfort her. "Shireen lived." he says brusquely.

Selyse inclines her head. "Yes. Melisandre told me then. R'hllor gave our daughter life. I know it. She showed me. Now, R'hllor asks for one baseborn bastard whose life casts a shadow over my womb to awaken the stone dragon. If not for your wishes, I would have given the boy over to R'hllor the first time she asked."

" The boy is twelve, and our own blood."

" _Shireen_ is our own blood," she raises her head and fixes him with the look of steel that, if anything would have endeared her to him at the beginning of their marriage, would have been it. "The Lord of Light could have cast her life to the Other who must not be named. He still could."

_Yes_ , Stannis considers. Though the suggestion stinks suspiciously of appeasement, he knows she means it the other way. The way he cannot word any better than her- that perhaps Melisandre herself could not, but which binds all three of them to serve the Lord of Light.

"I will think on your council," he tells her. She bows her head, and makes as if to leave. "Do you pray still for a son?" he asks suddenly, as much to keep her here a while longer as it is to know the answer.

"Yes," she replies. "At every nightfire."

"Should we be so blessed," he begins slowly, "I believe Davos would be a good choice of middle name."

His Onion Knight named his sixth son for his King, and his seventh son for Stannis' father. If ever he has a male heir, the child will be named Stannis, but he can honour his truest lord and vassal sincerely, as Davos did for him. The single one of his sworn lords that did not do it to curry favour, or patronage, but because he believed Stannis to be a man he would be proud for his sons to emulate.

Perhaps his wife understands this, too. "I will think on your council," she replies. "Have you any further need, My Lord?"

"No."

"Then I shall take my leave."

He watches her go down the stairs, back straight as a rod under her grey dress. When he hears her shut the door at the bottom, he realises he has stood up straight as she in order to watch her leave for as long as possible. Without thinking, he turns and goes to the doorway on the opposite wall, and starts down the other set of steps that lead to his Hand’s new chambers.

It is only when Stannis is moments away from opening the door that he realizes Devan is still there, and he curses Selyse for distracting him, even though she could not have known. The boy will leave by the other door, he reasons, that leads out into a hall and the rest of the castle. He is the only one who goes in by this door, which means he is unlike to be disturbed if he waits whilst they finish talking.

He waits.

“….Mother sent back a letter with the raven. She wants to know if you need her here.” He hears Devan explain. “Or if His Grace will give you leave to see her.” Stannis frowns. Though it is perhaps a weakness, he does not think he can do without his Hand for a sennight, or mayhaps even longer. Not whilst he is surrounded by the hoard of fools and vultures that pass for his liege lords.

“When you write her back, make sure you tell her I’m fine,” Davos tells his son. “And that I’ll come and visit as soon as possible.”

“She wrote she would ‘pray to the seven’ that you get well, Father, she ought not to write that, should she? It should be the Lord of Light-“

“Your lady mother will worship whichever gods she chooses- don’t look at me like that, lad. Unless _you’ll_ be the one to tell her?”

Even through the door, Stannis can hear the boy shudder slightly. “That’s what I thought,” Davos says. “I’ve told you before- all of you- there’s not a man alive your mother will listen to. It’s the reason I married her, though really I should say _she_ married _me._ What does it matter if you worship one god and she worships another? She is your lady mother, and you are her son. Look at the Rebellion- the North worships the Old Gods, and the South the New Gods, they still fought together, did they not?”

“Yes, but…”

“’But’ what?”

“I don’t know.”

The answer makes Davos laugh, and Stannis enjoys the sound for no more than a mere couple of seconds before it morphs into a coughing fit.

"Father?" he hears Devan's voice, laced with worry, the fear of seeing one's parent sick for the first time, seeing vulnerability where once was a man made purely of strength.

"'S alright, lad," Davos wheezes in reply. "'S alright."

There is a period of movement, scraping and clunking, more movement, and the coughing dies down. Stannis presumes this means Devan has fetched him something to drink, which reminds him to check if Pylos has sent up a different tea when he eventually enters the room.

The pair share words too low for him to make out, noise babbling through the door like a stream over rocks.

"Should I fetch the Maester?"

" _No_ ," his Onion Knight says firmly. "He'll try at using his leeches again, or some tea that tastes even fouler than it smells. I'm fine."

The word 'fine' is half-lost in another coughing fit. Harsher than before, longer; loud even in the stairway, and Stannis can only imagine how it sounds to a boy of twelve at the bedside of his lord father. As if to drive the knife deeper into an already festering wound, once it stops he hears Devan say, "Blood- Father, there's _blood_."

"Don't fret, lad," Davos soothes, in a tone more gentle than any with which Stannis has ever addressed his own child. "Pylos said there was, remember? It's alright. Now tell me- what else does your mother write?"

The conversation continues, though Stannis pays it little mind, thinking instead of how easily his Smuggler fits the role of a father, and how he has raised seven good sons, and how he has a good wife, and lots of other things he will never admit to another living soul.

He misses the exact moment his squire leaves, only blinks and comes back to awareness realizing that he has. Grinding his teeth, he opens the door. “Davos,” he greets brusquely.

The man looks less startled than one should be at their King bursting in unannounced, “Your Grace.”

Stannis realizes he doesn’t know what to say next. He doesn’t look ‘better’ or ‘well’, Pylos has already seen to him this morning, he is not in the habit of inquiring after his lords’ children, there is nothing to say except, “Do you require anything, Davos?” Stannis thinks he requires the Maester back to attend to him _properly_ , with the threat of his King's presence hanging over him, but he holds his tongue.

"No, Your Grace," he rasps. Then he gives him another look Stannis cannot understand.

He grinds his teeth and blames it upon the fever, he is certain it has gone up since he left the room earlier. He sends for weak broth, and spots a steaming mug upon the table. Upon inspection, it is not the butterbur tea that Pylos sent before. ' _Coltsfoot'_ a note informs him in the Maester's handwriting; it looks and smells far better than his previous concoctions, and he doesn’t hesitate to place it in Davos' hands.

His Onion Knight drinks without complaint. When it is time to eat, Stannis again has to feed him, and again barely a quarter of broth is consumed before he insists he has had enough.

"Nissa Nissa," Davos whispers mere seconds before the silence will stretch out into unbearable awkwardness.

Although his Hand has never voiced such thoughts, Stannis knows he likes Melisandre little and believes not in her god. _Why would he think of her and Lightbringer, at such a time?_ "Davos?"

"The magic sword," he elaborates. He looks up, but Stannis doubts he truly sees what is in front of him. "If that's the price, I shan't pay it."

"Azor Ahai paid the price thousands of years ago. No one will have to, now."

"No one," Davos repeats lowly. Something in his eyes changes. Like fog over the sea blowing away in the wind. "No one, that's good," he relaxes against the pillows. "Marya wouldn't let me anyway."

Stannis feels his mouth quirk into the smallest approximation of a smile. It falls when he wonders if Selyse would do so for him.

_It would not work_ , he thinks, more annoyed than sad. _Nissa Nissa must be loving and strong and courageous_. He cannot speak for the latter two qualities, but his lady wife is in no way 'loving'.

Who would he sacrifice, to save the world? Edric Storm? Davos? _Shireen_?

_Never_ , Stannis vows. Not his daughter, not his heir.

"It wouldn't _work_ ," Davos coughs, but Stannis knows he is not addressing him. "She _gave_ \- she gave, she did. To him. Him, him, him, him, him."

Another one of those queer, feverish, nonsensical prayers. Stannis finds himself uncaring what god it is meant for, so long as they listen.

***

Maester Pylos comes and Stannis sends him away once he has performed a perfunctory examination. "The fever will break soon, Your Grace," he tells him surely. "By the time morning comes, the danger will have past. All that will be left is for him to recover."

The words do little to reassure him, and he grinds his teeth.

_He will live_ , Stannis tries to console himself. _Melisandre has seen it in the flames._

Bugger the Lord of Light, Maester Pylos, Selyse, Melisandre. This fear will not be eradicated until he has seen with his own eyes that Davos is well again.

Sitting down in the chair by the bed, Stannis prepares himself for the night ahead.

It is only several hours later that he realises he had fallen asleep. Sitting up, he focuses desperately upon the man in the bed. Davos is awake, and whispering to himself again, though so quietly more often he is simply mouthing the words and letting them die before they even leave his lips. Yet even that mere movement is enough to trigger a fresh coughing fit, and Stannis tamps down on his mounting horror as it brings blood bubbling over Davos' lips.

Holding onto his Smuggler's shoulders to keep him upright, he considers it lucky that at least the nausea seems to have ebbed away. He is not sure his iron will could stand even more horrible sounds from his Hand's mouth; more reminders that the danger is not yet past; more tearing of the stark wound on his heart that occurred when he believed the elder man had not survived on the Blackwater, and only grew deeper with the passage of time.

Calmly, he yet again takes a cloth and washes Davos' face of blood and fever, wondering if there is anyone more ill-equipped for the sickbed than he.

"Nissa Nissa," Davos mumbles. "Marya. Dale. Allard. Matthos. Meric. Y' Grace, my lord, my lord, my lord. Salla. Marya. Devan. Stannis. Steffon. Stannis. Lord, lord, lord, lord."

"Davos?" Stannis sets him back against the pillows and ducks down to try and catch his eyes. "Davos, do you know where you are?"

"Your Grace?" he wheezes, it sounds like the sea is in his lungs and drowning him from the inside.

"Do you know where you are?"

"Not Storm's End," he replies hesitantly. His eyes are swimming, either with fear or fever, Stannis cannot tell.

"We are on Dragonstone," he confirms. Pale though he is, his skin burns to the touch, and he liberally applies the cool cloth again and pulls the blankets up higher. The back of one of his knuckles drags over the skin where his neck meets his shoulder. For the first time in the whole of this thrice damned mess, Stannis knows what he ought to say. "How do you feel?" He doubts he has ever inquired after anyone's feelings before.

Frowning, Davos shrugs. "Fine, Your Grace."

Stannis snorts. "The truth, smuggler. Else on the morrow I shall leave you to Pylos and his leeches."

His comment brings a smile to Davos’ face, but not another of those queer ones he cannot understand. A true smile, that makes his eyes crinkle like waves thrown up against the hull of a boat. He is the only person who has ever smiled at Stannis in such a way, which, if he is not mistaken, is yet another sign of how the former smuggler is not just his lord and Hand, but his friend. The revelation strikes more fear into him than he suspects it would another man, and he suspects too that Davos oft doubts his King’s need of him.

More coughing erupts into the room. Harsh enough he does not doubt that if they were in close proximity to a nightfire, it would risk be at risk of guttering out. He fetches a goblet, and bid the man drink. He does.

“The truth, Onion Knight,” Stannis orders not unpleasantly.

“Fine, Your Grace,” Davos replies not dishonestly. “Tired, but for that and the cough, fine.”

Stannis draws back, suddenly aware of how close they have become; _do I mean that merely physically?_

“Very well,” he deems. He isn't close to smiling, but it’s a near thing. “You have escaped the leeches this time, Ser.”

“I am very glad of it, Your Grace,” Davos smiles. “I would hate to have to leave your side because I have drowned in the sea trying to rid myself of the bloody creatures.”

His left hand is on top of the blankets and furs, short four fingers as it has been twenty years past, and mere inches away from his own. Stannis moves his own hand, and clasps that of his Smuggler. “As would I, Davos.”

If his Hand thinks the contact queer, all Stannis can see in his smile is calm like still water. He realizes it is the first time he has held anyone properly since Shireen was a much younger child- though Melisandre is a priestess of fire, but his duty with her was necessary, and she has flesh ice to the touch.

He had not realized quite how cold he has grown until now. And perhaps Davos does not mind this strange act, or understands its effect, because he makes no move to end it.

That inaction warms Stannis more than the fire.

 


End file.
